


Hello, Operator

by aeroport_art



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Incest, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Past Underage, Poetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-01
Updated: 2008-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Susie (and her steamboat) approves of Wincest. Examines the boys' relationship through poetic form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Operator

**Author's Note:**

> It might not look it, but every word, punctuation, and indent actually serves a purpose in this (the formatting took longer than the actual writing, I swear :P). Tip #1: Remember the Miss Susie rhyme? This works kinda like that, the lines hooking onto each other to make one big tapestry. Tip #2: Read it aloud and take your time. Might have to read it a couple times. If you guys can actually stay with me on this, I'll love you forever :D More notes at the end.

Evening.

Some day, the weekend.

 _Sam and Dean sit on Missouri’s porch, drinking lemonade_.

It’s hot outside—Sam takes a long drink as Dean watches, sips at his own, until

Morning,

Another day, another state.

Bright knots of tight muscle that Dean rubs at, incessant.  Waves Sam off but this

Samuel, he’s persistent. Kneads it out when his brother’s too tired

                       (to argue) and battles the

Coiled sinews beneath his hands.  Sam understands,

the language they speak—this contraction here, when Dean fired too soon,

or this snarl there, when Sam left after noon

(for coffee)

Two sugars in Dean’s with a little cream

and cinnamon.  Licks his lips again,

Speckled dots of spice to entice

(Sam) while outside, the passersby multiply

Into rush hour crowds

Sam avows

to stay

In

Dean’s hands

is a little, grey kitty

Scars and stripes, antiquity

In the blues of its eyes.

Dean speaks of demise, when he holds the kit near

and Sam finally agrees

to keep

under wraps

the thoughts

                    in his head.

In their stead,

the TRUTH of it is—they’re brothers                       

                                                   (not _lovers._ )

Sam knows it dearly,

this tyranny.

Dad deals it to Dean, he says it’s for Sam, 

But John never knew (the extent of Sam’s DESTINY)

how inclusive of

_Dean,_

               Sam whispers 

                              deep into the night.

_Dean_

               (comes into Sam’s bed

                                            on little cats feet)

Brandishing broken bones, and with it goes the troves of Sam’s ( _awkward_ )

Limbs in repose.

The color of rose collects in between the

crevices of

Dean’s fingers, that linger,

in the space of

Sam’s stomach in

Sam’s throat.

Sam’s guilt from

Mom’s quilt that she made, back in ’78—for lovers

                                                   (not _brothers._ )

Dean deals it again, he says it’s for John,

But Sam never knew (the extent of Dean’s NORMALCY) ‘cause

it sounds like bullshit to him, sounds like

Bullshit to him,

you bullshit to Dean.

(Touch Sam, you touch Dean.) 

Sam touches himself, wants to

Touch Dean,

and you won’t live to see the

Day,

Some town, yet another state.

A werewolf who won’t know any other fate

Silver through throat, the blade serrate—it’s

GORY, you see, it’s ALL OVER the place

Sam knows that the Blood

will NEVER ABATE and Dean?

His brother, Dean?

_(Just touch me, Sam)_

Dean, his brother Dean.

His

                                (brother)

Dean.

                                ( _Like that, Dean?_ )

His brother-in-arms,

Soldiered in the sense of the harms they both shoulder-

to-shoulder, sleeping ‘till late

Afternoon,

Name your City and State.

_Here’s your platoon, now eat up your steak._

Dean says to him, avoiding Sam’s gaze

On his skin, at the base of his neck,

is a hickey.

Red.

Bred to be seen, two inches above collar because Sam,

Sam’s always been a possessive little fucker.

Dean’s always been an

Evasive

                              ( _Fucker,_ Sam cries)

Everything dies

They see everything die, behind barrels of guns, sometimes

Under the sun,

they lay out a blanket.

And Sam sleeps

Dreams

Of a different plane where

Dean sings a different refrain, and it

sounds like brothers

                                                                      ( _and_ lovers.)

Sam doesn’t wake.

_“Sam!”_

doesn't wake.

                           (Play the tape: _A pause. A promise. A pact._

                                                                        Aren’t we all PLEASED at the fact?)

That Sam, he wakes,

His Dean, he shakes

(shook                   hands

for his  soul.)

Sun                        down,

Sam shivering from cold

So. He starts a fire.

                              (Hell, he _is_ the fire)

Dean’s just the light and so

Sam’s gonna fight

                                             (and _win._ )

 

 

_\--draw the curtain--_

 

Behind them

they leave the mileage of Gods

Criss-crossing through highways (and those below and above)

In the car

Sam looks askance

and Dean looks back                                      

(and smiles).

 

In Awhile…

It’s evening.

One far-off day, some inevitable place.

_Sam and Dean sit on their porch, drinking lemonade._

It’s warm outside.

.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> You made it to the end! *hands you a bouquet*
> 
> The goal of this story was to physically control the way it reads, done through extremely anal-retentive, strict shackles of words. It looks pretentious with all its odd spacing, parenthesis, and italics, but they're all there to try and shove the reader into this narrow box (car) that keeps going, like its on rails. I did this to try and evoke, through words, the atmosphere of nomadism (the rhythmic pace) and inevitability (the way the whole thing strings together) in Sam and Dean's lives. I want this piece read aloud, I want the reader to hear his/her voice ebb and flow, like highway scenery, start to finish.
> 
> Of course, I also don't want this story to sound as pretentious as it is, so let's just dub this as PRETTY-SOUNDING!POEM and leave it at that, yeah? xoxo


End file.
